


Too Much Truth

by FunkyinFishnet



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst, F/M, Post-Battle of Five Armies, Racism, Relationship(s), Royalty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-04
Updated: 2017-04-04
Packaged: 2018-10-14 21:54:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10544958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FunkyinFishnet/pseuds/FunkyinFishnet
Summary: Legolas accompanies Tilda to Erebor to visit her sister. It is his father’s wish that he does so. Legolas does not understand the new world he finds there.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Also features an undercurrent of Legolas/Tauriel, only on Legolas' part though.

 

 

 

It was not Legolas’ choice. But his father had been clear – take Princess Tilda to Erebor to visit her sister and report on all he encountered. Legolas had not argued.

 

Tauriel was inside the Mountain. It had not been many weeks since news had reached Dale and therefore the Greenwood that Tauriel had wed Prince Kili of Durin’s line. It was the first Legolas had heard of her since the battle and her banishment. He had assumed she had left for other woodland, to become Captain among Elves who would welcome her. She was extremely capable.

 

Tilda was excited to see Tauriel, as well as Kili and Fili and her sister. Tilda was often excited. Legolas could not see a reason for it. He remained quiet as he guided his horse towards Erebor; Tilda sat in front of him holding a bag tightly with her gaze fixed eagerly on the Mountain. All Legolas saw were rocks and numerous ways he could be set upon.

 

He could feel the eyes of the guards. They had been informed of this visit; King Bard had made sure of it. Legolas could have felled the guards in the work of a moment. He was sure he would. Dwarves were unscrupulous and savage and thought only of gold and the dark of their mines. Who would live under a Mountain? How could she-?

 

A shout caused Legolas to halt and a Dwarf revealed itself, staring down from above the gates. Tilda waved a hand.

 

“Princess Tilda of Dale,” she called up proudly, the novelty of it clear in her voice, the words sounding practiced.

 

“And the Elf?”

 

The Dwarf’s tone was thick with disrespect and dislike. Legolas’ eyes narrowed the barest fraction. One of his hands held reins, the other lay on a sword pommel. Tilda was relaxed and happy, ignorant of the threat that faced her and would soon surround her. The Dwarves had already leveraged a marriage with her sister. King Bard was too trusting, sending another heir into the Mountain, especially now that King Thorin was awake.

 

“Legolas of the Greenwood,” Tilda answered promptly, still with too much of a smile.

 

The Dwarf didn’t look happy but nodded and shouted something down that caused the gates to be opened. Legolas pressed heels to his horse’s flanks. She would not enjoy being under the Mountain but she would obey him, just as he obeyed his father.

 

Legolas did not tense. He did not sweat or look around fearfully. He did not enjoy being underground. His father knew that.

 

The gates shut loudly behind them. The horse halted at Legolas’ command. The area was lit well by flaming torches, reflecting off of the armour and jewels worn by the crowds of Dwarves. They peopled what appeared to be an enormous cavern of some kind, a meeting place? The Dwarves were all busy, all talking – sharpening weapons, carrying sacks and pickaxes, looking at scrolls of paper and pointing at crevices Legolas could see nothing remarkable in. There was the molten smell of blacksmiths' work and the stench of animal grease.

 

Tilda slid gracelessly from the horse’s back, bag still clutched tightly. Legolas followed her, a hand still on one of his swords. A Dwarf broke away from one of huddles, his eyes wide with pleasure when they beheld Tilda. Still Legolas was ready. His father did not wish any harm on the Daughter of Men, he was...fond of her.

 

“Is that a Princess of Dale? They get prettier every time they come to the Mountain.”

 

Tilda rushed towards the Dwarf, flinging her arms around him with a happy greeting. He kept his lit pipe away from her and smiled round its stem. He wore a peculiar hat that covered his ears and was made of some kind of dirty fur. Like every Dwarf Legolas had met before, this one wore unmatching layers of leather and rough-spun cloth and at least two weapons on his belt. There were bound to be more hidden. Legolas did not ease his gaze.

 

“Bofur!”

 

The Dwarf, Bofur, appeared truly pleased to see Tilda. He grasped her as though she was not royalty at all. Tilda seemed content with this even as they parted, tugging her braided hair back into straightened place and grinning quite happily. She seemed strangely at home; eager to be there even. Other Dwarves were smiling at her now too.

 

“I hope you’ll keep me the honour of a dance tonight,” Bofur asked her. “Show Dwalin how it’s really done.”

 

Tilda bobbed her head in happy agreement and almost seemed to bounce in place. “Where’s Sig? And Fili? And Kili?”

 

“And all the Dwarves you can name off the top of your head?” suggested Bofur with a twinkle. “C’mon, your sister wants to lay eyes on you. You too, Your Highness.”

 

That was directed off-handedly at Legolas. Legolas did not startle with surprise; he had been sure he would be ignored. He had not ceased training his gaze on Bofur and Tilda but equally was aware of how many eyes were fixed on him, how many mouths were talking, how none of them were Tauriel. Where was she being kept?

 

Legolas nodded and the shade of Bofur's eyes seemed to flicker but he turned to offer Tilda his arm, which she took, before leading her on.

 

“Don’t worry about your horse, it’ll be taken care of,” Bofur tossed over his shoulder.

 

Legolas glanced back to see two Dwarves, as squat and gnarled as any, approaching the fine beast and reaching for the bridle. She shied at first but one, astonishingly, produced an apple and she soon bent her head.

 

Legolas truly had no choice but to follow Tilda and the Dwarf. Tilda was talking quietly to Bofur – about her lessons in swordplay and using her fists, how much Bain was having to learn to be King after their father, how she’d been thinking about making something for Sigrid. Bofur answered her just as quietly and filled his responses with amusement but also properly answered each of her questions. He was not treating her like an infant.

 

It was not just him. Legolas observed how the Dwarves they passed bowed towards Tilda, how they smiled and watched her, as though her presence was a pleasure in itself. Their gazes darkened when they looked upon Legolas. None threw or even aimed weapons though he was aware of some Dwarves spitting once he’d passed them, gestures that were not punished within his hearing.

 

They were going deeper into the Mountain, down a corridor, past an open door that revealed rows of battleaxes and another that led to a room full of looms with several Dwarves working industriously. To Legolas’ eyes, it appeared to be getting darker the further they went. He memorised their route. His hand remained on his sword.

 

Eventually they reached a door larger than many they had come across, which was guarded by two particularly brutal-looking Dwarves, both of whom bowed towards Tilda and shone only savagely hateful glances towards Legolas. He looked back; no fear, no sweat, only an equal to their contempt. Tilda remained too pleased and bobbed a thank you as the doors were opened while Bofur exchanged pleasantries with one of the guards, discussing a bet of all things and dice that would be rolled soon.

 

Legolas’ father remained convinced that the Dwarves who lived under the Mountain would tear it apart with their own fury and inability to truly function as a fruitful cohesive society. All Legolas had seen so far was unpleasant surroundings filled with unpleasant creatures. He could believe his father’s words.

 

The room beyond was an enormous kitchen, almost a hall in its own right. There were sizable pots steaming on stoves and over fires, trays of what appeared to be breads and biscuits being tended to before being placed into ovens, and implements and ingredients thrown across the length of the room where they were neatly caught without fail. Legolas did not duck. There was no order that he could discern to the activity, no order or reason.

 

The room was full of busy Dwarves, he assumed they were female. What a baffling race they were, adorned with jewels and pieces of metal and laden with weapons and temperaments that saw few other races wishing to ally with them. The Men of Dale did, only due to proximity, and a brisk trade had been set up with others across the water, for reasons Legolas could not comprehend. Who would trade with Dwarves? They could not be trusted.

 

The smell in the room was overwhelming and exceptionally disgusting. How could anything here be edible? It explained the Dwarven temper somewhat if this was the sustenance they chose. Tilda was looking around eagerly and there was a curious whistle from a Dwarf stood next to a large table, their stance more like a guard than a baker. The room became quieter; Tilda herself seemed quieter too, looking at the Dwarf with something akin to awe. Legolas could not see why.

 

The other Dwarves were still moving though and then Legolas could spy Sigrid in their midst. She was smiling and wiping her hands clean on the apron she wore over a dark blue dress that remained in the style of Dale with jewelled embellishments at the collar and cuffs that were proudly Dwarven. Her hair was bound back and now held several braids, fastened with a nonsense of gemstones and metal. It all jingled as she hugged Tilda tightly, two sisters locked together in a manner that Legolas could find no reference for.

 

But then Sigrid disentangled and curtseyed to Legolas with a clear welcome gaze, the first he had seen in Erebor.

 

“Welcome, Your Highness. Thank you for bringing Tilda.”

 

Legolas nodded to her, “Your father sends his greetings, as does mine. They enjoy your letters.”

 

Legolas was still unused to the sight of his father sitting so close to King Bard, a look of quiet pleasure on his face as he read letters Sigrid had composed solely for him. It made Legolas feel as though he did not have firm footing anymore. His father did not wear such expressions. Only now, he did.

 

Sigrid smiled, “I’m glad.”

 

“Oh!”

 

Tilda scrabbled into her bag and produced a small fistful of paper, “Da said I should bring them.”

 

There was handwriting among them that Legolas did not recognise, though each one seemed to address Sigrid as Princess. Sigrid slipped them away under her dress, as though she’d expected them, as Tilda produced a folded sheet of paper and looked towards the Dwarf who had whistled with an expression that Sigrid nodded at.

 

Tilda quickly crossed the room to hand the paper to the Dwarf, that she addressed as Anar, with earnest words. Anar unfolded the paper and looked at it with a small surprised smile, nodding deeply to Tilda who beamed and rushed back to Sigrid and Legolas.

 

“She liked it.”

 

Sigrid smiled right back, “Are you hungry now? Or thirsty? Mouck.”

 

A Dwarf with long dark red hair and a moustache and beard to match passed by, handing over a bottle of clear liquid and two cups. Sigrid poured some for herself first, drinking it without comment before filling both cups for her guests. Tilda drank hers quickly and asked for more. Legolas sniffed his first and tasted it sparsely on his tongue. Water. He too drank more than one cup full.

 

Now, Sigrid offered them warm spiced bread, drizzled with honey (“there was a delivery last week and we’re using it sparingly but today is a special day.”). Tilda eagerly ate several slices and Sigrid offered the plate to Legolas.

 

“It’s suitable, Your Highness. King Thranduil told me what to avoid.”

 

But she didn’t apologise for meeting Legolas in a room full of cooking meat. She ate some bread herself, telling Tilda not to talk with her mouth full. Legolas tried a bite and found the honey too sweet and the bread hard around the edges. The spices were strange with the honey though and he found he wanted another bite.

 

Sigrid handed him the plate and turned her attention to Bofur who had been talking with several of the working Dwarves.

 

“We’re almost ready here, once the hunt comes back,” Sigrid told him.

 

“Ah there’ll be here soon enough. Message came from over the hills that they’re on their way back.”

 

Sigrid nodded, her fingers moving as though counting. Then she turned to the kitchen, Anar whistled in a slightly different tone and everyone quietened almost to silence. There was respect in how they looked at Sigrid, waiting for her to speak.

 

“The hunt should return soon. Thank you for all your work today.”

 

There was shouting and clapping and Sigrid removed her apron, taking Tilda’s hand and leading the way out of the room. Legolas followed, aware of Anar and Bofur following behind as activity resurged inside the kitchen. Sigrid squeezed Tilda’s hand.

 

“I need to change. We’ll be feasting soon.”

 

Tilda’s eyes went wide. “Can we watch the hunt, Sig? Please!”

 

Sigrid met Anar’s gaze for a moment and then nodded. “Come on, then we both need a wash and change.”

 

Tilda didn’t complain and Legolas found himself compelled to follow as the group returned to the Mountain’s large entrance hall, just as the gates opened and admitted a sizable group of horses, ridden by loud dirty Dwarves, laughing and shouting and looking very pleased with themselves. One horse was covered with animal carcasses. Legolas looked away, aware again of the many eyes fixed on him, on his reactions and taking pleasure in them. Sigrid and Tilda were talking together, noting the Dwarves by name and how they had been since Tilda had last seen them.

 

One of the Dwarves energetically dismounted. They had blood on their exposed forearms and hair the colour of dark gold braided in what appeared to be a wave pattern and tied off with metal objects that looked like knives. Their eyes lit up when they spied Tilda and they spread their arms wide.

 

“Little daughter!”

 

The voice boomed and Tilda accepted an embrace. She would be getting smeared with dirt and blood but Sigrid did not appear concerned, watching with a warm smile. Tilda curtseyed deeply once released.

 

“Princess Dis.”

 

Dis. This was King Thorin’s sister, mother to princes Fili and Kili. She had a thick beard to match her hair, threaded with jewelled beads and ornaments, and there was a broadsword on her back. She wore breeches and a leather shirt, perhaps Dwarven armour, with a thick dark purple cape. She smiled at Tilda’s address.

 

“You sink very well and honour me with it. You’re here to visit your sister.”

 

“And Fili and Kili and Bofur and-.”

 

Dis laughed into Tilda’s stream of names, “And everyone. You’re here and we are pleased for it.”

 

Tilda looked excitedly at the horses that were being led away, “The hunt.”

 

“Very successful for the kitchens, for our stomachs.”

 

Where had they been hunting? There were not many woodlands close to the Mountain, they must have ridden far. It was likely they had raided lands that they had no permission to be on and had done so messily and destructively. None of them carried bows.

 

Dis looked towards Legolas, her gaze piercing. He was sure it was mocking too. He would not look away. She appeared amused and did not offer a curtsey or bow.

 

“Prince of the Greenwood here to see us.”

 

“Da said he should come with me,” Tilda confided.

 

Dis’ amusement did not abate. “While King Thranduil visits Dale, I believe. Well, you’re welcome at the feast of course. I can’t say it’ll be to your taste but you’ll be fed and entertained. You’ll be given chambers close to young Tilda, I assume that’s what King Bard had in mind.”

 

Legolas nodded briskly, feeling even more eyes on him. “My thanks.”

 

He was being patronised, insulted through kind words. A Dwarf, covered in blood and ringed with metal, was smiling at him and thinking him beneath her. His father was right; the measure of Dwarves could never be worthy or trusted.

 

Sigrid stepped forward to take Tilda’s hand, “We’re away to wash and change for the feast.”

 

“As will I. Haraka.”

 

A taller Dwarf bowed to Dis, following her as she left the hall to bows and curtseys. Sigrid left down a different corridor, leading Tilda and Legolas to what appeared to be a more isolated wing of rooms, with more guards present outside each door.

 

“You'll be staying here, Your Highness,” Sigrid explained, stopping outside one. “Tilda will be right next to you, next to me and Fili.”

 

Legolas dipped his head. Before he could say anymore, Tilda pushed open the door to her room and hurried in. Sigrid followed, asking what dresses Tilda had brought with her. Anar firmly closed the door behind them and stood in front of them.

 

She didn’t even glance at Legolas but his spine still stiffened. He entered his own room without a word. There was a fire lit in the grate and two lanterns hung from the walls. The decor was not grand, there was no gold. The bed was piled with thick sheets and blankets in deep greens and blues and there was a rack attached to a wall for Legolas’ weapons, none of which had been demanded off of him since he had entered the Mountain. There was a pan of water warming over the fire and cloths on a table and a long glass fixed to the wall behind. The saddlebags from his horse were placed beside the bed. They did not appear to have been tampered with.

 

*

 

Legolas did feel better in himself after having washed and changed his clothing. He wore a similar tunic and breeches to those he had rode in, in shades of pale green and gold, covered by the robes frequently worn by his people. He also wore a simple gold circlet sparsely jewelled. He had daggers on his belt and one of his swords. He knew no Dwarf would go unarmed.

 

He had not seen or heard a single word of Tauriel. Where was she?

 

He stared into the glass and did not think of the long summers they had patrolled together, how true her arrows had always been, how beautiful her sword form, how easily his father had changed her expression. She deserved better than this dark and pungent place, full of veiled insults and mocking eyes.

 

There was a knock at his door. Anar opened it but pointedly did not enter.

 

“Princesses Sigrid and Tilda are ready.”

 

It was an order. Legolas slowly turned and walked measuredly across the room. Anar did not lash out or even smirk but there was something tighter in her expression.

 

In the corridor beyond, Sigrid waited in another dress like those from Dale with Dwarven touches to it, this one a lighter shade of blue, and her jewellery was as restrained as before. The only addition was a jewelled coronet ; its blue gemstones matched her dress. Tilda wore a dress in the same style as her sister's, in a soft yellow, and wore a sort of woven metal circlet. It would be suitably light for a child and not cumbersome.

 

Sigrid smiled when she saw him, an expression that grew when Tilda’s stomach rumbled. Tilda didn’t apologise.

 

“I’m so hungry, Sig!”

 

“You’ll be sat next to Kili.”

 

Tilda was evidently delighted as the group walked away from their rooms and towards what Legolas could only guess would be a feasting hall of some kind. They passed few Dwarves now and the reason was obvious once they reached the feast – most were there already. The noise was incredible; everywhere Legolas looked there were Dwarves laughing and eating and calling to one another across the enormous collection of long square tables that filled the hall. At the very front of the room on a raised platform so they would be seen by all, sat the royal family. Princess Dis sat next to Balin, King Thorin’s chief advisor, and there was Prince Fili, wearing a fur cloak and shades of blue that complimented his wife’s dress as well as a silver jewelled crown. He gave every appearance of being pleased to rest eyes on Sigrid, though it was difficult to be sure considering how scarred and damaged his face was.

 

King Thorin too was scarred and wore the largest silver crown of the royal party, which shone in the dimmer light that surrounded it. Legolas eyed him longest; he had been present for negotiations with the King Under the Mountain once the battle had been won and the King himself was awake and coherent. The Dwarf had lost none of his temper or prejudice but the negotiations had eventually been successful despite King Thorin. Beside him was the Hobbit, curly-haired and so small. He was an odd creature, choosing to remain here, with the Dwarf that had almost killed him. The Mountain did peculiar things to people. It was a prison and somehow they had not noticed.

 

There was Prince Kili, dressed in black and silver, including a circlet that stood out starkly in his long dark hair, and throwing something to a Dwarf seated on the lower level, shouting in the strange Dwarven language. His left arm was positioned as though he could not truly move it. He bore scars also, though none as disfiguring as his brother’s, and appeared as full of flippant youthful happiness and careless arrogance as Legolas remembered of him from before. Legolas' skin felt as though insects crawled over it.

 

Tauriel sat beside Kili, in deep shades of green with a fur cloak around her shoulders. There was a jewelled circlet on her head and what appeared to be beads and braids in her hair. When her husband leaned close to whisper something, she smiled. Legolas looked for a moment, only a moment for he could not allow himself more – she was here, she was well. She was a prisoner.

 

Sigrid led them all the way up to the high table, smiling at the greetings called to her and Tilda from other Dwarves and nodded to one who carried a large staff. He thumped it on the ground and something resembling silence fell across the hall. Legolas had not thought it possible.

 

“Princess Sigrid of Erebor and Dale, Princess Tilda of Dale, Prince Legolas of Mirkwood.”

 

There had been a pause before Legolas’ name, Legolas was sure of it. Sigrid and Tilda both dropped into curtseys toward the top table, Legolas affected a neat bow. King Thorin gave him only a cursory glance but it was filled with such distaste and rancour that one of Legolas’s hands clenched into a fist. King Thorin paid more attention to the princesses. In fact, he looked towards them with something...it was not affection or fondness, it could not be. It was not an expression Legolas recalled King Thorin being at all familiar with before.

 

“So you’ve come to visit us again,” he said to Tilda.

 

Tilda nodded and produced a little roll of scrolls, “I have letters from my Da.”

 

The Dwarf with the staff took them with a bow and handed them up to the royal group. King Thorin nodded his thanks.

 

“There’s a place for you at our table,” he stated, like a great decree.

 

Tilda’s face lit up, as though she had heard something special in such ordinary words. Sigrid helped her up the steep steps and the noise in the room rose again, as though it had been prompted by such a sight. Tilda hurried to the side of the table where Kili and Tauriel sat, hugging Tauriel first who seemed pleased by the unnecessary gesture, before Tilda hugged Kili and sitting on his other side. Kili talked to her with animation and helped pile her plate with roasted meat and pies and bread. Meanwhile Sigrid went to her husband who kissed her lips and then her hand, and poured a tankard of something amber. Sigrid looked at him with such contentment, despite his race, despite his misshaped visage, despite how she had come to be trapped in a Mountain with such a brutal untrustworthy people. Surely, she could not be so blind? How much they must have lied, or broken her.

 

Tauriel was not looking at him, though she had to be aware of him and his frequent gaze. She concentrated on talking to her husband and to Tilda who was eating heartily and talking constantly. She fitted in too well.

 

“Your Highness.”

 

Balin beckoned Legolas towards a seat beside him. Legolas would not be seated next to any of King Thorin’s kin. But what would he say to any of them? How many kind words, disguising the insults within, would he be forced to endure? Balin smiled welcomingly as Legolas sat down – he was almost opposite Tauriel he realised. A torture, a help or a coincidence? Balin signalled to a Dwarf below who nodded and hurried away, returning with a plate of leafy greens and bread. It was very...considerate. Pointedly so.

 

“I trust this will suit you, Your Highness,” Balin said as the plate was settled before Legolas.

 

The food was more than he expected from Dwarves and he nodded, concentrating on eating, lest he not be given such a well-suited meal during the rest of his stay there. He sipped at the ale poured for him; it was not strong enough to affect him bodily and the taste itself could not be called pleasant but it was tolerable. He watched Tauriel eat a plate of equally leafy greens and fresh bread. She drank ale without pause and though her hand did not intertwine with Kili’s as Sigrid’s did with Fili’s, the affection between them was obvious enough without touch; through glances, how they dipped together to speak quietly, how they existed in the same space together. Legolas thought on what could coat the leaves of his dinner; he did not feel steady. He tried to look away.

 

Balin conversed with him about King Thranduil, how the trade routes were, how the alliance with Dale fared. He seemed interested in Legolas’ answers and smiled, ate and smoked as though he was not conducting issues of state over a foul-smelling meal in an unruly hall of Dwarves. Legolas answered politely every time.

 

Once the Dwarves finally ceased eating – it seemed to take a great deal of time, they were gluttons of course – the Dwarf with the staff gained silence once more and gestured to a crowd of Dwarves who began to move several tables, creating a large empty space below. Other Dwarves produced what were apparently musical instruments and there was music, of some kind, and songs. Some everyone joined in with, others were solos that brought laughter or respectful silence. Both Sigrid and Tilda seemed to know many of the words. Tauriel murmured along to some of the tunes; she had never shown an interest in ballads or melodies before.

 

When the musicians and singers moved away from the centre of the hall, Fili stood up and extended hands to both his wife and Tilda.

 

“Let’s show them how it’s done.”

 

Sigrid and Tilda seemed happy to comply, taking Fili’s hands and descending to the floor to great cheers where they were joined by many other Dwarves. A Dwarf with a wild assortment of grey and black hair and beard partnered Tilda. At Fili’s nod, a tune was played and the Dwarves began to move. The song was fast and they moved to it in enthusiastic patterns and spins, interweaving with one another . Most who did not dance smoked pipes and clapped along to the music. Some played cards and dice or games involving sticks and pebbles. Many drank deeply from their tankards and called for more.

 

Sigrid and Tilda seemed at home in such a dance, not stepping wrong more than any other dancer. Sigrid was flushed with effort when the song came to an end and Tilda clapped happily, thanking her partner and squeezing his hand, asking for another. They danced on. There was no elegance to the Dwarven dances but there was synchronicity and a keen enjoyment from those participating. Legolas could not discern the source.

 

He was taken aback when Tauriel got to her feet and, leaving her fur cloak behind, went down to join the dancing ranks along with her husband. Many of the Dwarves cheered and called out in the harsh Dwarven tongue, which Tauriel answered them in with a quiet smile. There was a long fine blade that Legolas did not recognise on her belt and she did not wear her bow. She partnered her husband with every grace expected of an Elf, even allowing him to lift her at one point as the dance seemed to demand. Legolas did not feel any steadier. His fingers would not unclench.

 

Tauriel danced several more turns before joining a table that was enjoying a card game. She did not participate but talked pleasantly and watched Sigrid and Tilda dance together with a clear contentment. Her husband was talking to a heavily-tattooed Dwarf who was answering tersely with meaningful glances towards Legolas.

 

Legolas could sense Balin watching him, but the elderly Dwarf did not say a word. Dis was watching him too, a mockingly amused lilt to her mouth making Legolas keep his gaze firmly averted. The smells and sounds were getting worse. He abruptly stood.

 

“Excuse me please.”

 

He left the raised platform and upon reaching the floor, found Tauriel had left the hall. When he left also, drinking in the cooler less-offensive air, he thought he saw the image of her red hair around a corner. He followed.

 

There was an alcove, no, a balcony, that showed a great view of Dale and the land beyond. A guard look-out perhaps. Here, Tauriel stood, her gaze fixed on the horizon. At last, Legolas felt steadier. Here were her regrets, the truth of what she had experienced here.

 

But when he reached her side, she did not look at him.

 

“Your Highness,” was all she said.

 

Legolas waited but no further words were forthcoming. He frowned, what was she waiting for? Were they being listened to, even here? They would speak the language of their people then. It had been too long since Tauriel had heard or spoke it.

 

“How do you stand it here?” he asked at last, quiet and covert, sheathed in a language that was only theirs in this place.

 

Now Tauriel turned to inspect him, something too much like Dwarven amusement playing with her mouth. Legolas could not ever recall such an expression on her face before. This place was a poison.

 

“It is the home my husband has always been promised,” she replied perfectly evenly. “The home for Durin’s line.”

 

Her husband. Her husband.

 

“It is not your home.”

 

It could not be; this darkness, all the rancid smells, the insults, the noise and so many Dwarves. It was not home for an Elf, not for Tauriel. But Tauriel raised a challenging eyebrow.

 

“I choose it.”

 

Because what other choice could she make, once she had been taken by the Dwarves, and now married to one. Tauriel examined him and saw what he did not say. Her brow furrowed now, though her amusement remained. It made the insects crawl across Legolas’ skin again.

 

“Kili was dying. I brought him home and they chose to let me stay.”

 

They chose. Yes, they could have had her killed, for once she had arrived with one of Durin’s heirs, likely beaten and bloodied, close to death, they could have believed it to be her work alone. But they chose to allow her to stay, like a favoured pet. No doubt they frequently reminded her of their extortionate mercy.

 

“Where do they keep you?”

 

His tone was hard and something emerged in Tauriel’s whole being to match it.

 

“When I first arrived, I remained in a room near the healing quarters. Their king lay dying and his heirs were not on the throne, the Mountain was volatile.”

 

And an Elf was never to be trusted.

 

“I was kept safe,” Tauriel continued. “I was treated well. I assisted in the healing. And once Kili was permitted to leave the healing quarters, I was allowed to leave mine. Now there is a royal suite.”

 

If that was true, she could have left once Prince Kili was healed. But why would she stay? The Dwarf was infatuated with her, believing it to be love. Tauriel had been touched by this; Legolas could not deny what he had seen. But duty and nature always outweighed such things and Tauriel would never be accepted in the Mountain.

 

“You could have left this place.”

 

“I choose to stay.”

 

Her expression was steadfast and there on her finger was a ring where, before the Mountain, there had been none. Now Tauriel drew attention to the metal pieces fastened into hair, at the ends of the few braids fashioned there. Several of the beads were shaped like flowers. Surely no Dwarf knew how to craft such likenesses.

 

Legolas felt as though the ground moved greatly beneath his feet. Tauriel insisted she was no prisoner, that her continued presence here was not unwilling. It was no act. But how could it be anything else? How?

 

“They are chains,” he told her firmly, his tone unwavering.

 

There was a hint of pity in her expression now and it galled him greater than anything he had seen worn in her eyes before.

 

“They are my glad choices.”

 

Her expression was implacable and yet it glowed. It was a truth that Legolas was forced to recognise - she was happy without artifice or lie. She did not wish to leave this place; its darkness or its inhabitants. Legolas felt anger at such a thought and a pain that he could not find words for.

 

“If the Greenwood knew you had lived-.”

 

“Your father did not send you to offer a pardon,” she replied, certain.

 

No. King Thranduil had not shown a moment’s regret for how he had banished Tauriel, an Elf he had raised from her youngest days. He had expected Legolas to behave as he did, as though the loss of her was not a pain that Legolas did not know how to address. She lived; it had brought him hope and purpose before. But she was forever beyond his comprehension now.

 

How could she prefer this, to open sky and woodland, to the chance of rightful home with Elves who would have welcomed her among their number? How could she want this at all? There was a footfall and Haraka appeared, bowing respectfully towards Tauriel.

 

“The King summons you.”

 

Tauriel nodded and immediately left the balcony, Haraka following swiftly. She was a barrier between the two Elves. Tauriel had not spared a last glance for Legolas, she had not looked at him as she once had in a manner that he had looked for daily and wished for often. His father had wed a high-born Elf, just as Legolas would. But still he had sought Tauriel’s company, unwilling to cease.

 

He watched her back as he followed them to the hall where Kili greeted her. Fili and Sigrid were sat together again; could it truly be Sigrid’s choice also? An alliance of course between Dale and Erebor was stronger, more trustworthy, through marriage. The Dwarves had made sure that King Bard knew this, giving him no other option. Sigrid did not appear as a prisoner though, she truly, unbelievably, seemed happy with where she found herself. Like Tauriel.

 

Kili eyed him with something like smirking laughter but didn’t say a word, though he clearly wanted to. Tauriel made her way to King Thorin’s side and bowed, listening intently as he spoke. She looked like a servant, a courtier. To a Dwarf. Legolas reached for a tankard of ale.

 

*

 

Legolas did not remain in the Mountain long. Tilda did not require a chaperone; any number of Dwarves sought her company. The Dwarf that was heavily-tattooed and the rudest Legolas had met yet took her for sword training. Bofur and his kin had carved wooden toys for her to inspect for the children of Dale and for the cities beyond the water that they traded with. There was any number of tasks assigned to her and she took each one with great delight, as though thrilled by the notion.

 

Sigrid was writing letters when Legolas came to take his leave. She smiled; her fingers stained with ink and heavily callused in places when she passed him a small bundle of papers, tied with fine ribbon.

 

“For my Da please, and King Thranduil.”

 

Legolas’ smile tightened and he bowed briefly, tucking away the letters for safekeeping. He was sure it was the first thing his father would ask for. Sigrid’s smile was warm as she rose to curtsey.

 

“Thank you. We’ll send a message by raven when Tilda’s on her way home.”

 

The ravens had seemed singularly uninterested in Legolas when he had come across any in the Mountain. In fact they actively flew from him or merely turned their backs. He had seen one take offered bread from Balin’s hand before accepting a message.

 

When Legolas prepared to leave the Mountain, the King did not come to wish him farewell. Balin conveyed his thanks and apologies. Such an absence was highly disrespectful. Legolas did not grit his teeth. Prince Fili did not shake his hand but bowed neatly.

 

“Give my thanks and regards to King Bard and Dale,” he asked. “They’re good friends to the Mountain.”

 

“I will, Your Highness.”

 

Fili smiled, as far as Legolas could tell, and no mocking appeared present in his tone or attitude. Legolas’ horse was brought forth and his saddlebags fitted with great ease. The horse seemed happy enough, not skittish or affected by her spell underground.

 

Tauriel was not there; Legolas had checked. But there was a clatter of hooves and a group of mounted Dwarves swept out of the open gates before him to cheers and laughter. Prince Kili was among them and so was Tauriel. Legolas could only watch. He was certain he had heard her voice, happy and challenging to her husband.

 

Fili watched them too. “Kili’s first hunt since his healing. They’ll have fine sport today.”

 

He sounded wistful but did not dwell, asking Balin for notes taken during his last meeting with the Iron Hills weavers guild. Legolas swung easily up into his saddle and turned towards the sun, welcomingly visible at last through Erebor’s gates. There were many eyes on him again, waiting for him to leave.

 

He did so without ceremony. Tilda had wished him farewell at breakfast before being taken to the kitchens to taste what was being prepared for a later meal. Every official gesture had been made. Beyond the stone of the gateway, across the bridge, Legolas felt his shoulders loosen, his breathing ease. He knew he was still being watched.

 

He could still see the horses that carried Tauriel and her husband, the pack bloodthirstily seeking a hunt. He could watch them for some time. In Dale, his father waited, as did King Bard, for word of his daughters, for letters from Erebor. Legolas’ father waited for the same, perhaps even more than he waited for reports of Dwarven behaviour.

 

Legolas could see every aspect of the world clearly, gifted with Elven sight, but with every passing day, his comprehension retreated further. He did not have words for it at all, some he did not wish to drag to light again. For now, he tried to focus on the sun.

 

_-the end_


End file.
